


Wells is the First Name She Wrote

by vallennes



Series: The 100 Oneshots [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Clarke Griffin & Wells Jaha Friendship, F/M, Post-Episode: s04e13 Praimfaya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-07 23:02:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13445259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vallennes/pseuds/vallennes
Summary: Post-Praimfaya, Clarke struggles with her loneliness. Wells and Clarke friendship fic, with some Bellarke. Inspired by the Unity Days 2018 prop department - "Wells was the first name she wrote," - The 100 prop man, showing off Wells' name on Clarke's rifle strap.





	Wells is the First Name She Wrote

A bleak landscape of hellish glowing orange faced Clarke, although that was simply how nights were now. No darkness. Just the glowing orange of captured light, swirling beneath the radioactive clouds that obscured ...

Her heart stuttered.

How long had it been since she last saw the stars? Eyes turning from the window to the tally on the wall, she muttered, “6 months,” as she absently rubbed at the still-healing radiation wounds on her arms.

She used to have only the stars to stare at. All her life she wished - yearned - for more - animals, plants, nature, people, ideas, art... She’d wanted it all and she resented the Ark for it. Sterilized metal used to be her imagined Hell, surrounded by an expanse of empty blackness, never changing, stretching out in every direction. Now she knew better. 

Hell was here, on this lifeless, glowing rock. Her only friend? Dead trees, dead plants, dead animals, and empty houses haunted by the occupants who once were, a long time ago. 

And the memories. And the wondering. And the waiting.

She couldn’t think of him for long without it hurting. She couldn’t imagine his face without feeling his hands wrapped around her, without smelling the scent of him like a ghost in the air. They’d been so close...

Tears gathered in her eyes. Her lips trembled.

“No,” she said with defiance, staring into the glittering eyes that reflected back at her in the window. “No.”

“Why ‘no’?” asked a voice that was familiar and warm. Clarke blinked slowly, tiredly, then turned around. No one. 

“Because” she answered the phantom voice, giving her head a shake, “Because I can’t give in.”

“To what? Emotions?”

“Yes,” she said, voice breaking, blinking away tears. 

“Why?”

“No one’s here.”

“What does that matter? You think emotions should only be felt if they can be reciprocated?”

“No, I-.”

Suddenly his face was there - or maybe it was all in her head - and he was looking at her like he used to look at her, back when they were kids and he towered over her and used to hold things out of her reach just to annoy her.

“Clarke,” he said sternly.

“If I fall apart...,” each word trembled, “There’s no one here to pick up the pieces. I can’t fall apart. I have to survive. I have to be vigilant.”

“Vigilant? More like over-thinking.” Wells smiled, but it disappeared fast. “Cry. Feel. Be human. You’re alive, Clarke.”

“I can’t,” she said.

“You miss him,” he said. “You miss them all. You’re lonely. You’re hurting. It’s okay to feel that.”

Clarke shook her head, biting down on her lip. “I can’t. I have to keep thinking straight-.”

“You’re not thinking straight. You’re talking to me, remember?” Wells said, flickering between existence and not with a warm smile.

“I wish you were here,” Clarke whispered, her face crumbling. “I wish you’d been here for it all.” A tear slipped out now. 

He nodded slowly, his warm smile still there.

“I miss you,” she breathed. She could feel her knees giving out as the tears clouded her vision. “If you were really here we could draw together like we used to, and write stories...” A smile lit up her face. “Remember Afaxia? The world we invented when we were 7?” Wiping at her face she was surprised to see her hand soaked with tears. “You’d tell stories about Captain Danielle, your overly cool space pirate, and I’d be his foil Alice. Remember?”

Wells nodded, but his smile was gone now. He swallowed audibly. She felt a familiar hand brush her hair aside. Only, it felt familiar in a different way from Wells. Like a memory, not a hallucination. A very good memory.

“I thought you’d know better by now, considering all the things he’s shown you.”

“Who?”

He made a face as if the question wasn’t necessary and she knew that. “You told him to think with his head and he did.”

She nodded. 

“You told him to leave you behind and he did.” 

She nodded.

“He wouldn’t have if you didn’t,” said Wells. “He’d be dead if he stayed here with you. You saved his life. Now it’s time to save yours.”

“By crying?” Clarke asked incredulously, as if that wasn’t exactly what she was doing.

“By feeling,” he said. “You’ve always been stubborn as hell, serious as hell. There was always something else to be done, somewhere to be, someone to meet.” He looked around, putting his hands on his hips. “You’ve got nothing but time now. Or should I say, nothing and time.”

“I don’t want it,” she hissed, voice cracking. “I want to be up there-.” Her voice stopped as she was overcome with the awful need to sob and shake. “Oh God, I want to be up there.”

Wells’ arm was around her now. She could almost feel his warmth.

“You will watch the world blossom back to life and I’m only sorry you'll see it alone,” said Wells, “But one day - sooner than you think - you won’t be alone anymore. Can you see it?”

She saw him then. His stupid messy hair and his warm eyes and she sighed, her heart throbbing.

“I can- I can see him.”

“What do you feel?”

“I feel like I’m home.”

“Can you try to hold onto that?”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Can you try?” Wells asked. After a pause, she nodded. He looked at her and said, “Home.”

“Home,” she repeated, eyes darting about Becca’s lodgings. “This isn’t home.” She bit her lip, brow furrowing with thought. “I can make one.”

She turned to look at him but he was not there, and suddenly she could barely remember what he looked like or what his voice sounded like. She could only hear her own voice reverberating in her head. 

She checked her watch - unmoved from the day Praimfaya hit - and jumped to her feet.

“5 hours?!” Clarke cried, running to look out of the porthole window. Dawn had broken - grim and grey and just as ugly as the glowing orange night. The air was filled with radioactive snow falling to the ground. “How could 5 hours have already passed?” she asked, patting at her face. It was dry.

The land outside of Becca’s lab was ugly, scarred. Not suitable to be a home. It took a few more months before the radioactive snow stopped falling, but when it was finally safe Clarke was packed up and ready to leave.

The rover was where they’d left it - keys still in ignition. She touched them tentatively, the cool metal no solace to her. 

“Home,” she repeated, brows crinkling. Her hands rose up to the rover’s steering wheel and she gripped it, running her hands over the entire length of it. Flashes of memory popped through her head - all she could see were his hands. His big hands. Warm hands.

Her gaze drifted upward, to the clouded sky. Then she turned the key in the ignition and the rover jumped to life.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. If you leave me a kudos or comment, please also consider showing some love to @blakeperalta on twitter for this information. And props to the prop department for the excellent prop eye for detail.


End file.
